Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Call a Thing,” he demanded, using the ancient word for a council of law. By Northman law any ship’s officer had the right to request that such council be convened, but only to deal with matters of grave import.

  Hrolf eyed the first mate warily. “What’s this about, lad?”

  “The female, that’s what. She attacked me—a ship’s officer—with her drow sorcery.”

  “You seem hale enough,” the captain pointed out.

  “Would you be happier if she’d left me dead?” Ibn retorted. “A hit or near miss, in the eyes of the law it’s all the same, and well you know it!”

  Perplexed by this development, the captain turned his gaze slowly over the men who had gathered to hear Ibn’s words. Almost without exception, they nodded agreement to Ibn’s assessment of the matter.

  Hrolf sighed and turned to Fyodor. “You’d better bring her topside, lad. We’ve got to get to the root of this.”

  The young warrior nodded grimly and disappeared into the hold. He and Liriel returned to find the men seated in a tight semicircle on the deck.

  “The Thing begins,” Hrolf said, his face creased with regret. “You stand before the ship’s council, Liriel Baenre, accused of attacking a ship’s officer with sorcery. What do you say to this?”

  The drow’s chin lifted defiantly. “Whatever the man’s position, has he the right to creep up on me, to threaten me with a knife? As you can see, Ibn is strong and well. I did nothing but stop his attack. If I’d attacked him, he’d be dead. If you doubt the truth of this, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate,” she said, leveling a cold glare at her accuser. “And if using my so-called sorcery defies your laws, why did you not object when we came through the gates at Skullport?”

  “Those are good points,” Hrolf said hopefully.

  Ibn folded his arms over his chest. “The charge stands,” he growled. “She tossed me into a damned big spiderweb and shot me with one o’ them accursed darts.”

  “But why didn’t you come forward sooner, lad?”

  “Yourself sent me off in that blasted little tub before my head cleared,” Ibn retorted. “And don’t think I’m happy about the rest of you lads thinking I got into the mead, or that I don’t know good stuff from tainted. She musta splashed it on me!”

  “Spiderwebs, darts smaller than your little finger, and a half swallow of honey wine—it’s a wonder you survived all that,” Liriel observed with acid sarcasm.

  Some of the men chuckled, and Hrolf passed a hand over his bewhiskered mouth to cover a smile. But Ibn’s face turned an angry red.

  “I upheld your orders, Captain—I didn’t lay hand on the wench. Not even when I found her casting magic in the hold, talking to them pickled elves like they was old cronies—holding hands with one of ’em! It was clear as sunrise that she knows more about all that than she’s let on.” The mate paused to let those words sink deep. “I been sailing with you a long time, Hrolf. I expect you to do right by me and by them.”

  A perplexed Hrolf chewed his mustache as he considered his dilemma. Most of the men had begun to accept Liriel’s presence among them, and all of them seemed willing to grant her strange ways some leeway. But there were things that even he as captain could not ignore. If any other man had thrown weapons—of any sort—at the first mate, it would have been considered tantamount to mutiny. The standard punishment was a quick toss overboard. Granted, Ibn had pulled a knife on the lass, but it sounded as if he thought he had a good reason to do so.

  “Three ships behind us, closing fast!” came the urgent voice of the man on watch.

  The captain exploded to his feet, a look of intense relief on his face. “We’re under attack, lads!” he roared out. “And Tempus be praised for it,” he muttered into his beard.

  Xzorsh and Sittl saw the approaching warships before the humans perceived their danger.

  “Three to one. It does not look good for your human friend,” Sittl observed.

  The ranger shook his head. “Hrolf and his men fight well. They also have the magic of a drow and the might of a berserker on their side. I saw that human destroy a giant squid. All things considered, the odds are not so bad as they might seem.”

  Sittl considered this. “I think calling reinforcements would be a wise precaution. Since you will no doubt wish to stay in honor of your pledge, I will see to it.” He smiled a little and placed a webbed hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Promise me, though, that you will watch the battle from a safe distance.”

  Xzorsh nodded, grateful for the understanding and support. “But the sea elves are long gone. Whom will you summon?”

  The other elf’s smile broadened and turned wry. “You’ve been so concerned with the humans of late that you’ve forgotten there are as many peoples below the waves as above!”

  The ranger acknowledged this gentle hit with a feigned wince. Sittl grinned, then turned to swim swiftly away to the west.

  Left alone, Xzorsh turned his full attention upon the coming battle. As he watched the large warships close in, he wondered whether his assessment might have been overly optimistic, and he hoped Sittl’s reinforcements would not be too long in coming.

  Five days after his ships left the docks of Luskan, Rethnor spotted another vessel, far to the west and silhouetted against a twilight sky. The High Captain took up a spyglass and peered into it. He gave out a derisive sniff. For some reason the ship had dropped sail, and it had turned so that he looked straight at the ridiculous wooden figurehead—a garishly painted statue of a woman with elven ears and improbable curves.

  “What in the Nine Hells is that? An elf ship?”

  “Ruathen,” one of his men put in, “That’s the Elfmaid—I seen her before. Captain’s one Hrolf the Unruly. He was run out of Luskan three years ago for tearing apart the Seven Sails Inn.”

  A slow smile crept over Rethnor’s face. He’d found not only his quarry, but also a way to deepen the mist that concealed Luskan’s plot against Ruathym. Waterdeep had forced Ruathym and Luskan to form the Captains’ Alliance. Let the meddling southerners think their efforts had borne fruit and that the two groups of Northmen were working in harmony to tamp down the threat of piracy. He, Rethnor, would serve up Hrolf to both Waterdeep and Ruathym village, and in the process buy himself good faith with both cities. The elf-loving officials of Waterdeep would readily accept Hrolf in the role of villain. The man had a wild reputation—not to mention possession of those pickled sea elves. As for Ruathym—well, there had been many strange happenings on the island of late, and the beleaguered people might well grasp at any explanation presented them. According to Rethnor’s sources on the island, Hrolf was considered to be something of a rogue.

  The Captain sent orders to his two other warships to flank the Ruathen vessel, taking the central attack himself. “As soon as we come within range, fire the ballista over her deck. Take care not to sink the ship,” Rethnor cautioned. “We need her whole, crew and cargo.”

  He raised the spyglass again and recoiled in astonishment at the sight before him. Standing on the deck of the ship, framed by a flying cloak that glittered darkly in the dying light, was a black elf. A female, at that. She was a tiny thing, all hair and eyes, with ears like a fox.

  Rethnor swore under his breath. He’d amassed power and wealth through his ability to craft multilayered plots and through his ability to plan ahead for each possible move his opponents might make. Unlike most Northmen, he did not consider chess to be an effete pastime. But he played most of his games in the back rooms and the battlefields that led to power, with living beings as pawns and warriors. He knew all of his players and opponents well. He knew what to expect from the sailors and fighters of Ruathym and was even confident of his ability to overcome one of their berserker warriors. But despite the stories he had heard all his life—or perhaps because of them—he had no idea what to expect from a drow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DANCE OF THE ELFMAID

  As Rethnor watched through the spyglass, the cap
tain of the Elfmaid—a mountain of a man with pale braids and massive arms—hauled up a brightly colored square sail and sent men to the oars. The pirates were going to try to outrun them.

  But the Luskan warships were built for speed. Two tall masts supported enormous sails that caught and held every breath of the wind, and the crews were chosen from the best the Northlands had to offer. Rethnor’s lead ship, the Cutlass, plunged after the pirates, its bow leaping the waves like a dolphin at play, sending spray after spray of white foam flying.

  As soon as Rethnor had the Elfmaid within range, he gave the order to fire. A ballista bolt—a giant, iron-tipped spear—traced an arc toward the pirate ship and tore downward through its gay sail. The bright cloth caught on the barbs of the ballista, rending from midsail to lower beam. The rip stole much of the wind from the sail, and the pirate ship slowed. Rethnor gave the signal, and two warships went wide to flank the Ruathen vessel. On three sides they closed in on the crippled ship.

  But Hrolf the Unruly was not one to go down lightly. The pirate ship spun in a sharp turn—so sharp that Rethnor fully expected the ship to careen. The Ruathen captain knew his Elfmaid well; the odd vessel righted and faced down her closest attacker, the ship approaching from Rethnor’s left. The full strength of the wind caught what was left of the sail, and the oars bent under the force of the rowers’ quick, desperate pull. The pirate ship lurched forward, so fast that the hull reared upward. Her sharpened bowsprit rammed broadside into the hull of the approaching warship. The lancelike beam bit deep into the wood of the Luskan ship.

  The pirates immediately sent a storm of arrows toward the warship to hold back the Northmen fighters. Under the cover of Ruathen arrows, the black elf, nimble and surefooted as a squirrel on a tree branch, ran up the tilted bowsprit and onto the warship’s deck.

  Northmen warriors charged to meet her with swords and battle-axes. The drow came steadily on. White fire spat from her hands and sent the warriors reeling back. She did not stop to press her magically gained advantage, but rose into the air.

  As Rethnor gaped—he had no idea the damned fiends could fly—the drow floated to the very top of the masts. She pulled a long knife from her belt and cut the lines that held the sails aloft—first one sail, then the other, in less time than the telling would take. The massive sails plummeted down onto the fighters, burying them all beneath a blanket of heavy canvas.

  Hrolf the Unruly was next to climb the bowsprit, and despite his massive size he was no less agile than the tiny drow. The captain leaped onto the deck and ran across the heaving, squirming canvas and toward the pair of masts. Meanwhile the pirates laid down boarding planks and swarmed up after him. They formed a ring around the outer edges of the canvas sail, stabbing down again and again into the trapped Northmen as they closed in toward the center. Here and there a dagger slashed up through the heavy canvas shroud, but the pirates easily cut down the sailors before they could emerge to stand and fight. It was not battle, it was butchery—and it was over in minutes.

  Meanwhile the warship on the right flank closed in on the damaged warship, circling around to the west and pulling alongside the Elfmaid. Rethnor nodded his approval. His ship was approaching from the east. The Ruathen vessel would be trapped, pinned to one warship and tightly flanked by two more.

  The Cutlass came in fast, swinging around at the last moment so that her port side struck the trapped pirate ship with a solid thud.

  “We got ’em now!” crowed the boatswain.

  Rethnor responded with a grim smile. He was no less confident of the eventual outcome, but he’d fought Ruathen before, and he wouldn’t consider them dead until their own funeral services were over and done with.

  At a roar from their captain, most of the pirates hurried back aboard their ship. Hrolf the Unruly remained where he was, boots planted wide on the bloody canvas as he braced himself for the second impact as the western ship closed in, battle-ready warriors clustered at the rail. From his perch aboard the higher warship, Hrolf looked down at his Elfmaid, and at the three ships that surrounded her like the spine and covers of a book. But his gaze did not falter, and his massive chest was flung out as if to receive the expected blows.

  Odd, thought Rethnor. Northmen sailors usually preferred to die on their own ships.

  As the High Captain watched, the dark elf floated down to the deck and then scampered over to the Elfmaid’s bowsprit. She straddled it, holding on with both hands and bracing her feet against the hull of the impaled warship, as if she intended to push the pirate ship free. To Rethnor’s astonishment, she did precisely that.

  The drow threw back her head and sent a single high, keening note soaring toward the darkening sky, an eerie sound that sent a prickle of dread running down Rethnor’s neck. Immediately there was a flash of light and sound, like lightning and thunder enmeshed in one combined burst of power. A spray of multicolored sparks bounced off the broken hull of the warship, and the Elfmaid shot backward. With a mighty splash, her up-tilted bow dropped back down to the water.

  While the Northmen fighters gaped at this marvel, Hrolf the Unruly cut through the boom lines on the foremost mast. The pirates who’d remained aboard the warship with him rushed to his side. Muscles knotted and straining, they gave the heavy beam a mighty heave. The boom swung out, sweeping over the bow and continuing around toward the westernmost warship. So close was the ship that the tip of the swinging boom reached over the rail and into the fighters gathered there. Several of the men were swept off the deck and into the sea. As if that weren’t bad enough, the boom continued its path—tracing a wide arc back toward ship’s rear mast. Like a giant quarterstaff, the second mast parried the blow, but the crash of impact sent a shudder through the damaged warship. A grinding creak rent the air; then, slowly, the rear mast leaned and toppled into the sea like a felled tree. All that remained was a few jagged splinters and a tangle of lines.

  Rethnor turned to his second, the warrior who served as battle chief. “Do not board the pirate ship. Bring the battle to us,” he ordered.

  The Northman responded with a curt nod, clearly understanding the High Captain’s reasoning. On familiar footing, the Northmen fighters had better chance of success, for who could know what deadly magical traps that damnable drow wizard might have waiting for them on the Elfmaid?

  A dozen or more men took up grappling hooks and sent them twirling toward the retreating pirate ship. Line after line fell into the sea, but finally one, then two more hooks caught hold on the low rail. The Northmen attached the lines to winches and drew the ship in as they would a hooked fish. Archers kept the pirates pinned down behind their shield wall so they could not cut the lines.

  The capture of the Elfmaid brought roars of anger and protest from her captain. Still aboard the damaged warship, Hrolf yelled out colorful challenges to his enemies’ manhood and ancestry, brandished his mighty broadsword, and demanded battle.

  “Oblige him,” Rethnor commanded the steersman, and the Cutlass once again closed in on the damaged ship. The pirate captain needed no invitation to board; when the warship came within reach he vaulted over the watery divide and hurled himself, sword first, at the nearest fighters. His men swarmed in behind him, all of them as eager for battle as their captain.

  Rethnor stayed on the forecastle, watching the fight and biding his time. He wanted the Ruathen fighters on this ship. All of the fighters. Yet some men remained on the pirate vessel, standing ready to defend her against attack.

  The High Captain turned to his ombudsman and gave an order to be relayed to the other warship. The man picked up semaphores and waved the signal. In response, the Luskan fighters on the far ship sent volley after volley of arrows raining down on the pirates. The choice was clear: the Ruathen defenders could stay where they were and die, or take the fight to the ship that was reeling them in. When the Elfmaid was close enough to her captor, the pirates leaped onto the warship and flung themselves into battle.

  All of the Ruathen were doughty fighters
, but Rethnor saw no sign of the expected berserker. With mixed disappointment and relief, he picked his first victim: a dark-haired youth who stood out among the fairer Ruathen. An easy kill—the lad could hardly lift the black sword he held.

  Rethnor stalked in, intending to gut the young fighter before he could parry the first blow. The Captain hauled back his blade in preparation for a backhanded slash.

  But he did not swing, for astonishment knotted his arm muscles in place. Suddenly his sword was no longer aimed at the young man’s torso; it was more on a level with his opponent’s thigh.

  Rethnor looked up. The young fighter appeared to be at least seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as the too-large sword he now held with frightening ease.

  “Berserker,” breathed Rethnor. His moment of fear passed, and the anticipation of battle swept through him like a fever. He raised his sword to his forehead in a gesture of challenge.

  In a movement almost too fast for the eye to register, the black sword mirrored his salute. Then it cut downward with an audible swish. Rethnor blocked, ignored the surge of bone-numbing pain that leaped up his arm and into his shoulder from the force of the impact. He spun, gripping his sword with both hands and lifting it high overhead to parry the next slashing blow. The swords met with a shriek of metal. Rethnor continued the turn, coming around to face the berserker and using all his strength and weight to press the black sword down toward the deck. He lifted a heavy-booted foot above the joined blades and kicked out.

  The Northman’s foot connected hard—a gutter fighter’s move that should have doubled his opponent over in deeply masculine agony. The berserker did not so much as blink. His black sword whistled up, throwing Rethnor’s sword arm out and wide. Faster than the High Captain would have believed possible, the berserker changed direction to slash straight down.

  So fast did the blade descend that Rethnor heard the clatter of his falling sword before he realized what had happened. Pain as pure and bright as molten steel exploded in his mind and his arm. He looked in horror at the dripping stump at the end of his sword arm. With one stroke the berserker had cut through gauntlet, bracer, flesh, and bone. Rethnor’s severed hand lay on the deck in a spreading pool of blood.